Beginnings: The Story of Amalagh
by ThunderGod Cid
Summary: In the cruel and deceitful world of V'elddrinnshar's nobility, a street urchin turned warrior must carve a path of blood and weave his own web of lies to find his place. Reader feedback is appreciated.
1. Prologue

Beginnings

Beginnings

_Prologue: Amalagh_

"Fan out and attack at will," the drow priestess commanded, and the male nobles under her authority eagerly complied, always willing to kill anyone. Such was their way; this hunt – the Beggar's Nightmare, many called it – occurred once a year and the nobles relished it. V'elddrinnshar's slums were filled with rivvil: slaves and commoners who did not deserve to live. To the nobles, the slums were a pestilent cancer in the city that needed to be cleansed, and they were all too happy to carry out this duty.

Phaere Godezynge wrapped her fist around the reins of her mount – a massive abyssal drake – and turned to her subordinates: three dark elves of varying degrees of skill and temperament, one female and two males. The other priestess – Phaere's younger sister Baelothel – also sat atop a drake. Her otherwise fair countenance was defiled by an angry scar that ran across both cheeks, the result of a higher ranking priestess' knife, which created the appearance of a permanent smile. Her eyes, cold and dark, did not reflect her ever-present smirk.

The two males, both on foot, stood to Phaere's right in silence, waiting for their specific commands. While Phaere was sure that they would have rather joined the others in the pillaging of the slums, they had been assigned to be her bodyguards. One of them, a master of Melee-Magthere called Ralak-Nûl Zumud who possessed a strong build and many scars but had lost his left arm, kept his one hand loosely on the hilt of his bastard sword. The second male, a young apprentice by the name of Zand only in his second year in the academy of war, cracked his knuckles and fidgeted out of boredom. He was still green, as anxious to get into battle as any soldier even if it was against helpless common fodder. The fingers of his other hand drummed a tattoo into the hilt of his handaxe.

"I guess it's time for us to join in the festivities, mistress," Baelothel said after a few moments of silence. "We wouldn't want those foolish males to get all the credit."

"Or all of the fun," Zand muttered just loudly enough for both of the females to hear.

"Silence, _jaluk_," Phaere snapped. Tugging again at the reins of her mount, which stirred with anxiety as the smell of fresh blood filled the huge cave that made up the slums.

V'elddrinnshar's poor sector was truly a horrific place where anarchy and penury ruled. The laws of the Matrons were only enforced when raiding parties like this one were sent to temporarily frighten the commoners into submission. The streets were usually lined with decaying corpses of those who died in the raids or the mass riots that occurred almost daily. Gangs ruled the area, and were only dispersed when trained soldiers were sent to root them out. Disease spread rampantly, and food was so scarce that people killed each other over what was available and usually ended up resorting to cannibalism.

It was the perfect place to go looking for a fight.

"Let's go," Phaere said, hints of a smile playing at her lips as she drew her trusted twin-headed flail in one hand and pulled back the firing mechanism of her crossbow with the other.

The saddle-mounted crossbow was truly a spectacular invention, she had to admit. A massive weapon the size of a small ballista, it fired arrows the size of javelins that could pierce heavy armor with ease. Particularly when enchanted, the weapon had the power to down almost any opponent. And since it was mounted on the saddle, it had no recoil and could be used with only one hand. Blending such power and convenience into one weapon was quite magnificent, making it exceedingly popular with the drow cavalry.

Phaere dug her heel into the side of her mount and urged it onward. The drake flexed its wings and lifted it and its rider into the air. Baelothel soon joined her, and the two hovered low over the tumbledown shacks and lean-tos. On command from their riders, the drakes unleashed blasts of dark flame from their mouths. The fires roared as they lighted the small homes made of clay and scavenged stones, soon creating an inferno that the peasants fled from in terror.

Phaere readied her crossbow and took careful aim, loosing one of the massive bolts. The projectile lashed out and struck an orc slave in the small of the back, knocking him flat to the ground. Zand followed up this assault with a throw of his handaxe which cut down another of the commoner scum, this one a drow covered in plague sores. The young warrior moved to the corpse and wrenched his axe from its flesh. After several tugs, it came free with a sick squelching sound and Zand wiped the blood off on his cloak dismissively.

"Are there any more, mistress?" Baelothel asked, and Phaere touched her hand to her forehead to activate the mind meld to House Godezynge's magus, Akgar. Akgar was quite skilled in divination magic, and was acting as their eyes and ears from his chambers in the Godezynge compound.

_There are three rivvil in the alley to your left, mistress_, Akgar said through the telepathic link established by the mind meld. Phaere's mount responded to her instruction and unleashed its breath weapon, and the curling flames engulfed said alleyway. Three more slaves – one goblin and two kobolds – ran out and franticly tried to extinguish the fires before being cut down by a volley of arrows from Zumud and the priestesses. Zumud tossed his hand crossbow to Zand, who obediently reloaded it before pitching it back to the master.

_One more in the shack below you, mistress_, Akgar added. Baelothel's mount launched a fireball from its maw, setting the house alight. The dark elves watched it burn for several moments until, satisfied that there were no survivors, Phaere turned to move on.

"Mistress!" Zumud warned.

"What is it now?" she demanded, her tone possessing an icy, biting quality that indicated her impatience was growing swiftly. Turning to look back at the burning house, her jaw slackened when she saw a figure emerging from the blaze. Wrapped in a heavy black shroud, the figure appeared to be burning, but moved with a slow and sure pace. Once it had stepped into the middle of the street, it cast off the mantle, revealing one of the largest drow Phaere had ever seen. Six feet tall and easily two hundred pounds of solid muscle, the elf wore only a set of ragged breeches that were torn into ribbons by the ankles. His feet and upper body were bare, but it did little to detract from his regal bearing. His finely chiseled features and long shock of stark white hair were clear in spite of the layers of sweat, grime and soot that covered him.

"What are you?" Phaere implored. "How did you survive the attack of the drake?"

The elf's lids opened, and his bright crimson eyes bored into hers. They seemed to positively glow in the darkness of the caves, and reflected an intelligence one would not expect from a commoner.

"Enough of this!" Zand shouted. "I will kill him." The warrior charged forward towards the newcomer and slashed down with his wicked handaxe; the other drow stepped to the side, and ducked underneath to evade Zand's forthcoming sideswipe. The mystery drow countered with a punch to the oblique muscle right under the apprentice's armpit, and the warrior doubled over in pain as his rib cracked. Zand dropped his handaxe, and flexed his wrist to cause a combat knife to drop into his hand from the leather thong that held it.

Getting back on his feet, Zand rushed the commoner and thrust with his large, saw-bladed knife. The other male dodged, and Phaere was astounded by the fluidity with which he moved for someone so massive. His grace and strength were superior even to those of many females, and the priestess was impressed by his abilities. He fought with a form that was extraordinarily crude and simple, yet at the same time effective. As Zand thrust upwards towards his neck, the other drow stepped again to one side and grasped his arm. Crushing the wrist in one hand to slacken the apprentice's grip on the knife, the other wrested it from his grasp and stabbed for the heart. The knive, having been issued from Magthere, was of good make, and the young drow's strength made it slice effortlessly through the student's armor.

Blood dribbled from Zand's mouth as he collapsed to the stone. The other drow in his party watched his death impassively; he had been an unskilled fool and a pawn and his death was of little consequence. His family would be notified, but casualties in Melee-Magthere were hardly uncommon.

Ralak-Nûl Zumud put his hand to the hilt of his blade, but ceased with a raised hand from Phaere.

"Do not kill him, Zumud," she instructed, her eyes not leaving Zand's killer.

"You," she said to the new elf. "What is your name?"

"Amalagh…" he replied, turning his eyes downward in deference to the priestess. "….Shaiith."

Phaere's eyes narrowed and Baelothel shot her a look that echoed how she felt; Shaiith was the surname automatically designated to any drow without a house. It meant 'Nameless' and was a sign of shame among their race. So he was a commoner after all…

Then what was so special about him? Perhaps the Matrons would know.

Phaere gestured to Zumud, who promptly shot Amalagh in the neck. The dart's poison took effect quickly, and the young drow slumped, sound asleep.


	2. Chapter 1

The Innocence of Youth

_Chapter 1: The Innocence of Youth_

"What's your name, kid?" the male asked.

"Amalagh," the child replied, refusing to meet his eyes.

"And I'm Zabal,"

"Zabal?"

Amalagh finally looked up, and immediately wished he hadn't. Zabal was a sickening excuse for a being that had spent over a hundred years wasting away in the disease-ridden dump they called home. His face was covered by numerous lesions from having contracted a sever case of leprosy. Even more scarring was present simply due to where they lived. The slums were a hostile place to live, especially for drow, who were reviled by the nobles and slaves alike. Zabal had seen more than his share of fights.

"How old are you?"

"Five years."

"Five?" Zabal repeated doubtfully. "You look at least ten to me and your speech makes you seem even older than that."

"I assure you that I know my own age."

"All right then, Amalagh."

Zabal leaned back against the clay wall of the ditch that he was sharing with the kid. These ditches were normally used to dump corpses, but many vagrants used them to hide, often concealing themselves under the dead to fool the roving gangs who searched them. The stench was often overwhelming and the bodies carried all manner of pests, but it beat joining them among the recently deceased.

Zabal was impressed by the child. Not many orphans had the brains or the balls to hide in these ditches, fearing either being discovered by the night gangs or killed by others for food. The male contemplated killing this child for a moment; he had never resorted to cannibalism before, but he had had orc meat several times when there was no other alternative.

But then a new idea sprang to his always self-serving mind.

"You look like a smart kid, Amalagh. Why don't you do something for me, and I'll give you some food."

The child studied the leper for a moment before nodding in assent.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Don't worry, Amalagh. This is the perfect plan. Besides, you've stolen before, haven't you?"

"Only from corpses."

"That's looting. The real thing is much more exhilarating. Just don't get caught."

Great advice, Amalagh thought to himself bitterly.

"You're a child, so they won't expect you to be the culprit. They're orcs, too. How much easier could it get?"

"All right, you've proved your point."

"Very good." Zabal stepped back from Amalagh while keeping his eyes on their orc target. The two elves crouched in a narrow alley between two large buildings in the main circle of the slums. Patrolling the plaza was a large orc with tremendous tusks and a long topknot. A crude but sharp falchion was fastened to his belt; Amalagh could only imagine what the orc could do to his flesh with that blade.

"Go, kid!" the leper said, shoving the child in the back.

Amalagh moved out into the crowd and weaved his way towards the orc with the falchion. On the other side of the belt was a large pouch that jingled with coin. The drow child snuck up behind the orc and cut the string holding the pouch with a small knife he had received from Zabal. Turning around, he slammed headfirst into the knees of another orc.

"Where do you think ye're goin' with that money, twerp?" it growled, reaching down to grab the child.

He never got his hand there, though, for Zabal came from his left and unleashed a fierce right hook that knocked the orc flat.

"Run, you fool! Don't just stand there!"

Amalagh dashed down the street and into the back alley, diving into the pit where he and the older male had agreed to meet after the theft. Moments after he had gotten there, Zabal crashed into the pit.

"By the Dark Mother, it's like a latrine in here!" he said, but Amalagh cupped his hand over the elder's mouth as three orc pursuers passed by without noticing them.

After Amalagh had removed his hand, Zabal wasted no time in congratulating him. "It wasn't quite what I'd hoped for, but it was still well done. We make a good pair, you and me. Come on, let's go get some food."

Amalagh was not impressed by Zabal's haunt, which was as dirty and foul as the drow himself. A low-ceilinged lean-to covered by bioluminescent Underdark plants and reeking of decay, only one tiny table furnished it. Resting on said table was a clay flask of booze which, Zabal boasted, was magically enchanted to never run out of alcohol.

After treating his guest to a meal of raw rat meat, Zabal started taking swigs from the flask. Amalagh did not ask to partake; even in this situation, the leper had clear authority due to his age and physical superiority. Even in his diseased state, he was still larger, stronger and more experienced.

"You know, kid," the older drow said, just getting to the stage of 'buzzed', "we should do this more often. What say we be partners?"

"Okay," Amalagh said, shaking Zabal's outstretched hand. "Partners."

Leaving his new partner to drink his sorrows away, Amalagh fell asleep.

--

Amalagh woke several hours later to the sound of Zabal stumbling around in the darkness of the lean-to. As his eyes readjusted to infravision, he picked himself up and moved over to where to other drow leaned against the wall. The flask hung loosely in his hand, and rum dribbled from his mouth.

"Zabal, what's wrong?" Amalagh dared to ask. For the first time in his life, his voice sounded genuinely concerned.

"Shuddup!" Zabal shouted, his words slurred with alcohol. He didn't even seem awake, for his eyes were closed, but he somehow seemed to register Amalagh's presence.

"Shut your mouth, Ibar!"

Ibar? Amalagh wondered, but his thought was cut short as Zabal kicked him in the stomach. The drow child doubled over in pain at the unexpected attack, and the older male kicked him again in the ribs.

"I know you're sick, Ibar," Zabal continued drunkenly. "I am, too! You can't keep scratching those sores, or else – Stop crying!"

He attacked again and again, occasionally putting in a good punch to accompany the flurry of kicks. His boots hit hard, and the brass knuckles on his right hand hurt even more.

Zabal's drunken rage soon subsided into a stupor, and he collapsed onto the floor of the room, leaving Amalagh bloodied and beaten. Not fully comprehending what had just occurred, the child curled up into the fetal position in a corner.

_Why would he do that?_ he thought incredulously, his astonishment quickly giving in to rage. He wasn't sure why Zabal had hit him, but he wouldn't leave now. He needed the other drow, someone to look out for him until he could fend for himself.

"I'll get you back for that, Zabal," he promised almost silently. "Someday."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Ties That Bind

_Chapter 2: The Ties That Bind_

"Are you ready, Amalagh?"

The drow youth turned to Zabal and stared into the leper's eyes, and the elder male chuckled to himself. It wasn't necessary to ask such a thing of Amalagh; he was always ready.

At only thirteen years of age, Amalagh was larger and more athletic than most adult dark elves. About five feet eight inches tall and 190 pounds, he possessed the strength of at least three normal drow. He was also incredibly quick; two years before, Zabal had seen the young man run down and restrain a rampaging rothe, no easy feat for any dark elf. The pair had eaten well for a week because of it.

The leper was also astounded by how quickly his 'friend' had grown. Amalagh now inspired a sense of fear in his older comrade. With the same equipment, which included a brass knuckle and a gauntlet to defend, Amalagh could use his superior athleticism and ability in _revi'n malarin_ ("street fighting") to put up a good fight. That was why Zabal kept several knives hidden in his boots to be his ace in the hole should Amalagh ever try to turn against him.

But the leper sincerely hoped that would not happen. For Zabal, the long-term partnership between himself and Amalagh was working out great. The two were a superb tandem in combat and crime, working together to defend themselves from the gangs who they robbed day after day. Not that he particularly liked the kid; Amalagh had his uses and would soon outlive them.

But he was blissfully oblivious to the beatings he administered on Amalagh when he drank his fill. While Amalagh was powerful, Zabal was the skilled and slick master of the streets. Without him, the young drow was just a target with no resources. The young drow did not fight back, leaving Zabal free to use his brass knuckle to his heart's content.

Even so, Amalagh's demeanor had changed over the years. He rarely spoke at all anymore – even to Zabal – and never in public. He was the silent but deadly automaton that everyone assumed Zabal commanded.

No other assumption could have been further from the truth. Eight years of bloody beatings had turned Amalagh's anger towards the leper into a fierce resentment. Unbeknownst to the rogue, Amalagh was biding his time for the moment to attack and take his vengeance on his partner. Amalagh was certain that no drow was capable of feeling affection, of having a mutually beneficial partnership with anyone, so he was sure that Zabal had some similar plot in mind.

He would just have to strike first.

"Okay, let's do this," Zabal said, interrupting Amalagh's silent reminiscing.

The two dark elves moved from their usual ditch and entered the main plaza, where a new prey – a group of thugs who frequented the area around their lean-to – had shown themselves. This was the perfect opportunity for the drow to make a quick getaway to the concealment of their home.

Amalagh circled the plaza until he and Zabal were facing each other across it. Even through the tide of moving bodies, Amalagh's keen eyes could pick out the disfigured leper. Stalking up behind the target – a quaggoth slave with tremendous amounts of scarring from his mistress' lash – Amalagh bumped into him casually. Annoyed, the quaggoth shoved him away, and it took the dim-witted beast a moment to realize that its pouch had been taken. By the time it figured out what had happened and turned to find Amalagh, the pouch had already been passed to Zabal, who was walking quickly in the direction from which his comrade had come.

With several long strides, the quaggoth reached Amalagh and grabbed him by the left shoulder with one huge hand. It was several inches taller than Amalagh and must have weighed over a hundred pounds more.

As Amalagh was spun around, he readied his brass knuckle and delivered a sharp punch to the bridge of the quaggoth's nose. Bone cracked as blood gushed from the brute's nostrils, and he collapsed into unconsciousness. The drow fled quickly, melting back into the crowd with no trouble and going back to the lean-to, where he met up with Zabal.

"Well done, kid." the older elf said in his usual nonchalant tone. "Now I'll just take the money and you can have your food."

Half and half was the deal, leper," Amalagh said coldly.

"The deal has been changed, kid."

The two glared at each other from across the small room until Amalagh bounded over the table to attack directly. He was a blur, moving with tremendous quickness.

But Zabal had fought for decades against opponents who were physically superior to himself, and Amalagh was not much different. The leper ducked under the young drow's right hook and delivered a vicious uppercut to his gut. Even with his brass knuckle, Zabal felt like he had tried to punch a brick wall, but the weapon did its work and winded Amalagh as well.

As the young drow doubled over, his elder grabbed him by the hair and put a knee into his nose. Amalagh sensed the oddly metallic taste of his own blood, which spilled from his nose and coated his face. Zabal took a swig from his flask and pulled a knife from his boot, pressing his knee into Amalagh's sternum to prevent a struggle. As he put the knife to Amalagh's throat, a high-pitched shriek echoed through the darkness, the sound made by the abyssal drakes ridden by nobles during the Beggar's Nightmare.

Mustering up all the strength he could, Amalagh threw the leper off of him and leaped to his feet. Sprinting towards the door, he could hear Zabal behind him, closing fast.

But not fast enough to get out before the house exploded.

Amalagh dove for the exit and was propelled even further by the tremendous blast from the drake. The ball of flame struck the lean-to and crushed it, causing it to collapse on the unfortunate Zabal.

Amalagh slowly pushed himself up and turned back to what remained of the lean-to. Zabal was in bad shape; with hundreds of pounds of rubble on top of his torso and legs, there was no chance of him escaping without help. Even worse, the plants and moss growing on the rubble were burning, having been ignited by the blast.

But Amalagh didn't care about any of those things right now. Zabal was a cruel and vile soul, as base and wicked as those he stole from. Whoever Ibar had been, he was now dead by the leper's hand, and Amalagh would be too if it weren't for the timely intervention of that drake.

"Amalagh, please help me," Zabal pleaded pathetically. All criminals were the same foolish cowards underneath all their malice. "All the times I helped you…"

"You were helping yourself."

Zabal stared up into Amalagh's eyes, which burned with years of sealed anger, anger that the leper had never seen the likes of before.

"Who's Ibar?" the muscular drow asked.

The question took Zabal by surprise, but he recovered quickly.

"Free me and I'll tell you."

"You're in no position to make demands."

Zabal craned his neck to look at the flames, which continued to creep towards him, and looked back to the younger drow.

"He was my brother."  
"And?"

"I killed him, all right?! He had leprosy and he wouldn't stop crying. That was almost a century ago. How do you know about it?"

"Your mind doesn't stay in the present when you get drunk, Zabal."

The leper's eyes widened and he tried to move, but he couldn't.

"You disgust me, Zabal," Amalagh said, "but we had a deal."

Kneeling down, the dark elf extended his hand…

….and took Zabal's flask from his grip.

"What are you doing?" the leper cried.

"Freeing you from the pain of your existence."

Amalagh popped the cork off of the flask and turned it over, splashing the leper with rum. He continued as gallons and gallons poured out, with no signs of ceasing. The fires quickly raced down and covered Zabal's flesh. His screams drowned out the crackling of the flames as they boiled his skin, causing a sensation even more painful than the leprosy

"Goodbye, Zabal. I'll see you in Hell."


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 2: The Lolth-Touched

_Chapter 3: The Lolth-Touched_

Amalagh had little to do in the tiny room he had been put into, so his reminiscing helped to calm him for a while. The drow had always had a keen memory, but in the last few years he had learned to completely replay events in his mind, which allowed him study his decisions at his leisure. He realized that he had made a mistake in trusting Zabal, and that he had to be wary of putting his trust in anyone from then on. Due to his determination to avoid asking for aid from others, Amalagh's only refuge had been to fight to get what he needed to survive, so he had honed his body and mind as best as he could to that end. He had taught himself how to assess an opponent with just a quick glance, to read muscle movements and predict his foes' next moves. These things had helped him to survive until now, and he would continue to put his trust in his own abilities, not in anyone else. If there was anything the leper had taught the young drow, belief in others was not it.

Since he had murdered Zabal, Amalagh had lived in his own way. Evading the nobles who killed indiscriminately for sport and fighting the other starving _rivvil_ who would devour his flesh for their evening meal, Amalagh had persevered.

But now it seemed that the life he had led would soon be over. The nobles had found him, and while they had not yet killed him he was certain of its inevitability. The cell that he sat in certainly did not suggest any hospitality on the part of his captors. The room was empty, completely devoid of any furnishings whatsoever.

That, however, was not what put the elf on edge. While he suspected that his death was the ultimate plan, the nobles who had captured him were seemingly intent on keeping him temporarily alive for some purpose, or they would have killed him back in the slums. He had to discover what that purpose was, but for all he knew it could be that the priestesses merely had brought him back as a slave. To the headstrong male, such an existence was worse than death.

Amalagh jolted as the sound of the door being unlocked, and he instinctually backed up even further against the wall.

Two male guards – both smaller than the young drow but sporting heavy armor and weapons – entered first, followed by the two priestesses who had captured him earlier. Despite not being mounted on the drakes, they were still quite imposing, particularly the beautiful one. While the one with the scars and the fake smile was intimidating, she did not have the cold and malicious eyes of the other one.

Baelothel was evil, yes, but also too simple-minded to be a threat. Phaere, on the other hand, she was schemer.

Those two both stepped to the side though, as a third priestess stepped in behind them. This one was older, and by the look of ardent conviction in her eyes, significantly wiser and more confident. Her skin was a healthy shade of black, her hair radiant silver. Around her neck was a silver charm on which gleamed a dark, scarlet ruby that seized the attention of all who looked at it, even diverting the eye away from the full chest upon which it hung. Numerous rings, bangles and other ornaments dangled from her curvaceous form, which was seductively wrapped in a flowing black shroud that did little to hide her beautiful body. Despite this revealing and suggestive look, an aura of magical power hummed around her, making Amalagh tremble with dread. This one was surely the matron mother.

"Bow before the matron, you insolent fool," Phaere said most indelicately to Amalagh, "or I shall have your entrails fed to the driders."

All in the room bowed with the respect that Matron Godezynge was due, including the young outcast: to refuse to kneel before a matron was to sign your own death warrant, and survival ranked highly among his priorities at the moment. The matron's gaze swept the room until it rested on Amalagh.

"Rise, child," she said. There was no gentleness in her voice, just frosty and impassive instruction. The adolescent drow complied and stood to his full height. He was at least an inch taller than the matron, but even when looking down at her he felt small and powerless. Her red eyes looked into and pierced the very depths of his soul. Nervously, he tried to look away, and his eyes caught the ruby and he was instantly enthralled by its depths.

_Very good_, he heard the matron say, but he had heard nothing with his ears. Her voice echoed in his very mind, and he knew at that moment there was nothing he could hide from her. Show _me your secrets, young one. What do you hide in your past?_

Images of his brief life flickered before Amalagh's eyes, but were soon replaced by a darkness that was pierced by a female voice, the owner of which he didn't know.

"His name will be Amalagh," the voice said as a newborn baby's cries joined in the noise, "seventeenth and last son of House…." The voice broke off as it was drowned out by the child's wails.

Then the voices stopped as quickly as they had begun.

_What have you done?_ Godezynge demanded, her voice in Amalagh's mind rising in volume and intensity. _What are you, that you could have blocked the powers of my amulet?_ Her tone shook Amalagh from his entrancement, and he saw her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

"Phaere, attend to me," Matron Godezynge ordered out loud, and the priestess swiftly stood at attention to her mother's left. The matron mother turned on her heel and slapped her daughter across the face. The sound resonated clearly across the otherwise silent room, along with Phaere's resulting gasp of surprise.

"How dare you threaten this child?!" Godezynge said in the same cold tone as before.

"Matron, I don't…"

"When I dove into his mind, I saw the symbol of the Dark Mother. He has the goddess' blessing."

"You mean he is a…"

"A Lolth-touched."

The two priestesses whispered quietly amongst themselves for a moment before rounding on Amalagh, which allowed him to shoot a glance at Baelothel. The third female eyed him with a cold and insidious stare that promised a great deal of agony regardless of the outcome of these newest events. When the highest-ranking priestesses finally turned back, Phaere still looked shocked, but Matron Godezynge wore an expression of sheer exultation as if she had just done some great service to Lolth herself.

"You said your name was Amalagh, correct?"

"Yes, matron," the youthful male replied.

"And how old are you?"

"It has been exactly five thousand four hundred and seventy-eight cycles of Narbondel since I was born."

The matron nodded in understanding, but was also considerably impressed by the answer. Llurth Dreir's clock of Narbondel, given the same name as its counterpart in the city of Menzoberranzan, used heat from the Archmage's magic to show the passage of time. One cycle was how long it took for the heat to travel up and down the rock tower that was Narbondel, about equivalent to one surface day. If this male's calculations were correct, and the divination magic from Matron Godezynge's ruby pendant showed her that they were, then he was only fifteen years old.

Therein was the confusing part. This child was too developed to be only fifteen, even for a Lolth-touched. Most drow didn't reach full physical maturity until age twenty if not later. If he was capable of more growth…

Godezynge nearly swooned at the possibilities that such a specimen could bring to her house. He could be the key to putting her into a Council seat representing one of the eight great Houses. There was only one thing she could say:

"Welcome to House Godezynge."


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 3: Education

_Chapter 4: House Godezynge_

Baelothel and Phaere stalked through the halls of House Godezynge's private chambers. The older of the sisters was stroking her cheek, which still stung from the force of the matron mother's slap.

"So, sister," Baelothel began cautiously. Despite her recent shame, Phaere still bested the scarred priestess in both power and rank. He temper was also infamous in House Godezynge; many had been caught on the wrong end of her fury, and therefore her whip as well. "What is so special about that boy?"

"Did you not hear our mother, you imbecile?" Phaere snapped. "He is a Lolth-touched: one who possesses the Dark Mother's eternal blessing. His strength and speed are greater than even our own, and although he may not realize it now, magic comes more naturally to him and his ilk than any drow. Killing him would be an affront to Lolth and among the greatest of blasphemies."

"But he is only a male!"

"It is not our place to question the Mother of Lust. If you do, the matron will have your head."

Baelothel groaned inwardly. "What should we do?

Phaere shook her head in frustration at her sister's foolishness. "Right now, there are many things we can do. Remember, Mother stated that we cannot kill him, but she said nothing of hurting him."

Phaere stopped for a moment to let the latest statement sink in, and the wide permanent grin on Baelothel's face spread even wider.

"I like the way you think, sister."

………………

Amalagh braced himself for another crack of Baelothel's whip, and it came just as customarily as the last sixty-two had. The stinging pain on his back that accompanied the lash was nothing new to the male: for the ten years he had been a member of House Godezynge these torture sessions had become almost routine. The sister priestesses of House Godezynge – Phaere and Baelothel – despised him, but they were bound by the authority of their mother not to kill him.

So instead they got off on inflicting as much pain upon him as possible. Despite his supposed favor with Lolth, Amalagh was still only a mere male: subject to the whims and wraths of the dominant females. The only difference between the Lolth-touched and any other male was that he was not to be killed once they had had their fun with him.

Amalagh had to admit, he much preferred Baelothel's torture to her sister's. While Baelothel's fierce whippings had been painful at first, he had grown used to them and could endure even two hundred lashes without crying out. She was vicious, but unoriginal.

Phaere was a completely different matter. Unlike her younger sister, she varied her methods of torture greatly and Amalagh was sure he had yet to see them all even after all these years. Thumbscrews, racks, needles, molten lead and the infamous tentacle rods were only a few of the devices she had used to ravage his body month after month, year after year. Amalagh had quickly learned to always be wary around Phaere Godezynge.

After over a hundred lashes more, Baelothel's attacks ceased, and Amalagh heard her breathing heavily. Baelothel always seemed to tire before two hundred lashes. She would get caught up in the ecstasy of it and attack too quickly, draining her energy before the full two hundred lashes had been administered.

The priestess did not even bother to untie him, leaving the massive male tied to the wall of the room, her bedchamber no less. But Amalagh had grown used to this treatment. Deftly twisting his hands to grasp the chains binding him, Amalagh flexed his arms and pulled them loose, shattering his metal bonds with a loud snap.

Moving out of Baelothel's quarters, Amalagh staggered through the halls to his own room, trying his best to take his mind off the dozens of open wounds that marred his back. Once he had reached his private quarters, he removed his clothes and lowered himself into his massive bathtub. Filled with a mixture of fermented wine and ammonia, the bath did little for his hygiene but was effective in disinfecting his injuries. It had also toughened his skin over the years to make him more resistant to the Baelothel's ravaging lash. It was excruciatingly painful on his cuts, but he had no one else to dress his wounds and this was the only viable option.

Even though he was officially a member of House Godezynge, Amalagh had never been treated as such by any of them. The only reason he had been taken into the house in the first place was because he was a Lolth-touched; were it not for her favor he would surely be dead.

But because of this 'blessing,' he was shunned by all who he came across. Akgar – Godezynge's House mage – was a complete coward who refused to teach the young elf anything for fear of retaliation from Baelothel and Phaere. Amalagh had been forced to pore over all the books he could get from the library by himself, and avoid Akgar in the process so that undue blame was not placed on the mage. The mage was weak-willed, but he harbored no particular ill will towards Amalagh and therefore was harmless as long as he did not get involved.

Even without the mage's help, the aspiring warrior had managed to increase his knowledge of the nobility and drow lore many times over, to learn things that nobody on the streets even cared to know. He had also tapped into the innate drow magic normally only accessible to those with a House emblem. Now he could levitate even without the aid of a magical focus.

The weapons master Galun Godezynge had been considerably more helpful. While not supremely skilled by any stretch of the imagination, Galun was capable enough to teach the eager and sharp-minded Amalagh much about fighting. After ten years of training he was quite skilled in the two-sword style used by elite drow warriors, at least for someone of his age. While he sampled everything, he had known for a long time that he was naturally ambidextrous and was keen to use it to his advantage. He was also supremely quick and agile despite his two hundred pound body, and most grudgingly deemed him worthy of Melee-Magthere. The only problem was that most drow entered Melee-Magthere closer to the age of thirty, and Amalagh was still only twenty-five. Even with all that Galun had taught him, Amalagh had no further interest in being apprenticed by the other fighter. The master spent significantly more time with Azdal, the real son of Godezynge, and would not have bothered to teach the commoner anything useful.

The young drow sighed with aggravation. He had no love for this place, and he hoped that he would not have to wait five years for an opportunity to leave.

………………

Matron Godezynge knelt down in her sanctum before the transportation circle in the center of the room. This circle was magically linked to another in the leading House Noqundar, which ruled over V'elddrinnshar with an iron fist. The magic of the circle was activated at the expected time, and motes of light began to coalesce into a corporeal form. Within moments, Matron Mother Ardularra of First House Noqundar had materialized in the atrium of Godezynge's house, and the lower-ranking matron rose to meet her. It took all the composure she had to keep herself upright and speak clearly. The Tenth Matron was powerful, but Noqundar was in a class all her own.

"Matron," Godezynge said, trying to be careful with her words addressing the most powerful of any drow in the city. "I must protest this decision!"

"You will not," Matron Noqundar commanded.

"He is too young…"

"That is a petty excuse at best. We both know that this Amalagh of yours is as strong and smart as any thirty year-old drow. Five years won't make a difference."

Godezynge breathed deeply, resigning herself to the fact that she would not be able to hold onto Amalagh for much longer.

"Your son Khazad is going to Magthere, is he not?"

"He is."

"Are you at all frightened that he will be bested by Amalagh of Godezynge?"

Matron Noqundar grinned wickedly. "No, for effective immediately, that Lolth-touched will no longer be a member of House Godezynge."

"What did you say?"

"The matrons of the Council believe that Azdal will be sufficient for you. Amalagh will go to Magthere without the support of a House. Despite how infuriated I am sure you are, the decision has been made."

Without another word, V'elddrinnshar's leading matron mother vanished, leaving the leader of the Tenth House alone.

"If I cannot have him," she whispered to herself, "then I must ensure that no one can!"


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Melee-Magthere

_Chapter 5: Melee-Magthere_

Amalagh stood at the entrance to V'elddrinnshar's _Qu'ellar D' yorn_ – the academy of drow training. Like most things in the city it had been modeled almost exactly after it's counterpart in the drow 'capital' of Menzoberranzan. In the middle of a massive plaza stood the city's clock – imitatively called Narbondel – which was at this moment glowing all along its surface to the top of the massive spire that reached its climax at the top of the cavern. The aspiring warriors around Amalagh lurked in the shadows given off by its light, most of them preferring to stay in the darkness rather than show themselves.

The Lolth-touched himself stood openly in the red glare of Narbondel's light, caring little for who saw him. The more well-informed of the other initiates would all knew that he had no House to support him, and so they would not be expecting any threat from him even with his formidable physique. Even if they had not already been told of his status by their respective houses, it was clear from his equipment that he did not represent.

Magthere was not only a school for warriors, but it was also one of the many arenas for competition among the noble clans. The abilities and standings of even male warriors were of great importance among them, so each House sought to outfit their representatives with powerful magical items that would give them an edge against the other males. As a result, many of the males had magically enchanted weapons and armor that Amalagh could distinctly detect.

He, on the other hand, did not have any such equipment. His armor was a shoddy set of studded leather interlaced with iron plates to defend the vital points. Amalagh had stitched this armor together himself and was confident in its make, but it had no magical enhancement whatsoever, which would leave him dangerously exposed to the ensorcelled weapons possessed by other warriors.

If Amalagh was at all satisfied with his armor, he most definitely was not with his weapons. On his sword belt were two scimitars he had scavenged from the slave armory of House Godezynge, the only place he could steal from without alerting the nobles. The blades were poorly made and balanced towards the hilt, which to even the young warrior was a sign of deplorable workmanship. Worse still, the blades were dull despite his best attempts to sharpen them, and the crude surface iron used to forge the weapons felt exceedingly fragile and weak in Amalagh's massive fists.

Despite that, he knew he would have to make do. Complaining about his lack of proper equipment would not accomplish anything and if he managed to defeat these warriors it would be by his skill, not by virtue of some magical aid, that he would be victorious.

After his inspection of his own equipment, Amalagh studied his surrounding environment. At first glance, one would suspect that Magthere was the simplest and least ornate of the _Qu'ellar D' yorn_ academies; closer examination would hammer in those suspicions with a crushing finality. The school itself was extremely straightforward in its construction – a pyramidal structure lit by numerous magical faerie fires – but the many levels above and below the surface were said to be extremely deep and cavernous. Magthere was covered in a reddish-purple glow as the light from Narbondel and the building ran together. The effect created a mystique around the school as the areas not directly exposed by the light were cast into deep shadow. Amalagh knew to be wary of the gloom; in his experience the most dangerous of enemies were those who struck from the darkness, not those who stood in the open.

The Lolth-touched recognized several of the drow there, including Azdal of House Godezynge. He had sparred against Azdal many times and never lost, so if the Godezynge warrior was at all representative of the skill level of a student, he would not have too much to worry about.

"_Ptau'al!_" said an unfamiliar voice, a harsh and gravelly tone that shook Amalagh from his thoughts. The cadets hurried to form ranks, each of them having been drilled in such obeisance from an early age.

Amalagh did not dare turn his head, but his keen eyes darted around, looking for the speaker.

"Keep your eyes down, _e'trit_," the voice said from right behind him, using the Drow word for "filth" as contemptuously as possible. Amalagh felt a bead of cold sweat roll down his cheek as he felt the unmistakable pressure of a blade pressed against the small of his back. After several tense moments, the pressure was gone, and the young drow could just barely detect the movement of a figure in his peripheral vision.

"Eyes up," the voice commanded, now ahead of Amalagh. All of the students complied and shifted their combined focus to the three drow standing on the steps of the pyramidal structure that was Melee-Magthere.

The first was a massive one, only an inch shorter than Amalagh but probably weighing just as much, with bulging muscles and a fierce complexion. His his was so dark it took on almost a purplish hue, and his hair was wild and free with no particular style to denote a position. He wore only a leather vest, and tattooed on his bare arms was "_Streea__wun__ xonathull, lu'__ib'ahalii __wun __streea_." Strapped to his hip was a wicked double-headed battleaxe with a hook on the end of the haft opposite the main blade. It's cruel and inelegant design suggested it was of duergar origin, for no normal drow would use such a rudimentary and heavy weapon. Perhaps this one was a berserker, a rarity indeed among the dark elves who so dearly treasured finesse and subtlety.

The second warrior looked much more suited to the part of a high-ranking drow. His hair parted neatly into the double braid that signified a master of Melee-Magthere and he was clad in a suit of elegant chainmail with the emblem of the school stamped on its chest plate. At his belt were a rapier and dirk typical of drow warriors, but slung across his back was a bow made of hewn yew wood, undoubtedly taken from the corpse of a surface elf.

"We three," this drow said, and Amalagh recognized his voice as the one he'd heard just moments before but this time spoken with a rich and melodious tone, "are the three primary masters of Melee-Magthere who have had the misfortune of being assigned to your class. Others wait inside, but we are your immediate superiors, the _Sut'rinos_. I am Anglin Rilynath; the one on my right is Randiir Zaumtor. And he," the master pointed to the third officer on his left, "is Ralak-Nûl Zumud."

Amalagh's eyes widened with surprise as he recognized this third master from the night of his abduction from the slums. His offset topknot, scarred face, and missing left arm were all familiar to Amalagh, but the other elf's eyes were what gave him away.

Just as they had during the Beggar's Nightmare almost ten years before, the one-armed drow's eyes shined with a nonchalant and casual spark that was vastly different from the intense and cold stares of the other masters. He seemed almost bored, as if he would not even pretend to care for these pointless proceedings of induction. Amalagh felt his lips beginning to part in a grin; perhaps this drow was also discontent with the facades and feigned ignorance that made up drow society.

"But to you," Anglin continued, "we are all to be addressed as _Sut'rinos_. You will report directly to us, and you will never waggle your worthless tongues to a female unless explicitly ordered to do so. Now, you are all to be referred to as _Sargtlin_. And _Sargtlin_…"

He paused, and Randiir stepped towards the nearest student and kicked him in the shins, causing the unfortunate youth to collapse to his knees.

"…must bow," Anglin added, a note of irrevocability in his voice. The other drow scrambled to kneel before the assembled officers; obedience was often considered the most valuable trait to be found in a _Sargtlin_.

"Now form up and assemble in your barracks," Anglin ordered. The drow quickly broke ranks and moved up the steps of Melee-Magthere. Amalagh was in the middle of the pack, but he turned quickly to look for Zumud. The master was gone.

"By the way," Anglin called after them, "should any of you be able to defeat Master Zumud in a duel, there will be substantial benefits, including a swift advance in rank and the privileges that go with it."

Note: "Death in battle, and glory in death," saying among male drow in V'elddrinnshar, particularly popular with the small numbers of berserkers.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: The Challenge

_Chapter 6: The Challenge_

The Lolth-touched poked his head out from around a corner and darted back once he had set his eye on his target. The master was good, but Amalagh had learned young how to stalk a potential enemy or, in most cases, a potential victim. His steps were carefully measured and graceful as he balanced his considerable bulk so perfectly that he barely made a sound.

Stepping out, Amalagh crossed the hall with several long strides and turned to step through a pair of double door, both hands keeping a firm grip on his scimitars. As poorly made as they were, the weapons, and more importantly his ability to use them, still gave him a sense of security and confidence.

Amalagh whirled to face the doors as the slammed shut, seemingly on their own accord. He turned back quickly, aware that someone could have rigged the door as a distraction to get an attack from behind his back. His hands tensed on his sword hilts. He could smell the unmistakable odor of surface iron mixed with the sweat of his palms.

"So, you're the first challenger from the new class, are you?"

Amalagh spun to face where the voice had come from, and saw the one-armed weapons master. His studded leather had mostly been replaced by an intricate set of full plate armor that covered his arm and legs. Spike and ridges jutted from the armor in seemingly random places, including a hooked, sharp-edged blade that protruded from the elbow joint. His bastard sword – an unusual choice for a drow weapon – hung loosely in its sheath.

"You've certainly changed much," Zumud remarked, looking up and down Amalagh's form and eying the younger elf's scimitars, "but the quality of your equipment has not."

Amalagh's lip twisted into a scowl. "Why don't you test their quality for yourself?"

"If you seek to fight me for a reward, I'm afraid you're being misled. The teachers use me to weed out those stupid enough to challenge a master to single combat. The only thing you'll receive from Anglin and Randiir by attacking me is a quick death."

Amalagh took a step back. Some support from the teachers had been what he was hoping for, but looking back he realized that he had been a fool to believe Anglin's words.

"Very well then," he said, recovering from his epiphany quickly. "I still want to fight, to test my own skills against a master."

Zumud nodded in agreement. "We will disregard rank then."

The one-armed drow drew his bastard sword and pointed it towards Amalagh. The weapon's long and straight blade appeared custom-made, well crafted and sharp, but also heavy and unwieldy. The hilt was also lengthened so that it could have been gripped with another hand, but Zumud held it easily in his gauntleted fist.

"You may have defeated Zand ten years ago, but your _revi'n malarin_ will be of no use to you here against anyone with a competent level of skill. I hope you've learned something over the last ten years."

Amalagh drew his iron scimitars and gripped them tightly, but was put off by how light they felt in his hands. The weight in itself was not the problem, but the balance of the blade would make Amalagh slightly less coordinated. Dismissing it, he readied himself to face Zumud.

"You use the _draa velve_, I see," Zumud said. "But let's find out if you can do something with it!"

Amalagh sprinted towards the master and started his routine with a cutting sweep towards Zumud's left side with his left blade. With no arm and no weapon to block, that side would be his most vulnerable spot.

But the bastard sword came across with tremendous speed and knocked aside the scimitar aside before parrying the underneath thrust from Amalagh's right hand.

"You're fast, I'll give you that," Zumud admitted as the young drow took several steps backward to recover. "But your maneuvers are amateurish and predictable. You have yet to hone your raw talent into true ability. You must do better to keep me entertained."

Amalagh scowled once again, and Zumud saw his weakness: his temper. It was good to fight angry, but letting anger fuel him and letting it control him were two different things. Zumud understood this, which was why he took care to never lose his cool during a battle.

The young elf thrust his left scimitar low to Zumud's right, expecting him to parry with the bastard sword, but the one-armed master used the spiked plate legs instead. Blocking the strike, he flung his other leg high and spun, bringing it back down to catch the scimitar between both armored limbs. Amalagh tried to pry his blade his blade loose, but the ridges in the armor held it fast. Zumud then thrust in to attack, but was thwarted by the Lolth-touched's other scimitar.

Zumud then called on the power of his animated shield, which sprung from the corner where it had been concealed and, flying of its own accord, smashed into Amalagh's back. The massive drow was thrown backwards by the large adamantine shield, which hit him with the force of a charging bull rothé. Landing ten feet from his one-armed opponent, Amalagh gritted his teeth in anticipation of a brutal attack. One of the first rules of fighting on the streets was to take full advantage of any moment of weakness with a swift and ruthless assault.

But it did not come. Instead of pressing the offensive, Zumud jolted the scimitar from his armor and kicked it casually to Amalagh. The Lolth-touched watched in amazement as the weapon clattered to the floor in front of him.

"Get up," Zumud ordered. "I hoped this battle would be interesting, but you're beginning to bore me."

Getting back to his feet, Amalagh attacked once again, his blades weaving a complex routine that surprised the master. Zumud was still able to defend, using the bastard sword and shield to parry expertly. But the Lolth-touched continued his offensive without letting up, hacking and slashing with abandon at the one-armed master. He was fighting with all his might, yet it seemed that Zumud was hardly even trying. The master equaled his speed easily, and seemed to have greater balance despite wielding the heavy bastard sword.

After several routines, Amalagh finally saw his opening; he swept his blade across and struck the bastard sword right where the hilt met the blade. He brought the next scimitar in for another quick strike, pushing the bastard sword out wide. With both blades inside the shield, Amalagh pushed upwards with a double thrust that would have eviscerated even an armored warrior. His blades went up and into Zumud…

…but pierced nothing. Amalagh, expecting some resistance as the blades pierced their target, stumbled forward and passed right through Zumud.

"An …illusion?"

The warrior's perception was immediately cleared as his suspicions were confirmed, but quickly blurred once again as the weapons master's shield smashed into the back of his head. Amalagh looked up and saw Zumud standing over him before he noticed the cold metal of the bastard sword against his neck.

Dropping his swords, he spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I yield."

Zumud let a derisive sneer cross his face for a fleeting moment and raised his sword as if in preparation for a coup de grace. Amalagh closed his eyes tight in anticipation of the killing blow, but instead heard the distinctive rush and clink of the sword being put back in its sheath.

Daring to open one eye, Amalagh saw Zumud readjusting the shield onto his back. The one-armed drow turned back to him, his face now serious.

"The normal punishment for attacking a master and failing to kill him is death, but in your case I think I will make an exception."

"Why?" Amalagh asked, puzzled as to why the master would spare his life. Zumud's actions defied the normal kill-or-be-killed standards of their race, and someone of his position would surely not have lasted long with such a trusting nature.

"Because I said that we would disregard rank. This was not a student fighting a master. This was a sparring match between two swordsmen. Nothing more."

Amalagh was not sure, but he thought he saw a barely imperceptible wink from the one-armed weapons master.

"Your _draa velve_ has potential. You and I should spar once again someday, and I'll teach you a few things."

_Ralak-Nûl Zumud_, Amalagh mused, _what drives you_?

With all of his equipment secured, the master turned on his heel and strode from the chamber, leaving the young student alone in the dark.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Master and Apprentice

_Chapter 7: Master & Apprentice_

Zumud rolled his bastard sword over Amalagh's thrust and outside of the younger drow's defenses, using his shield to ward off the second blade. With nothing to protect his core the Lolth-touched was vulnerable, potentially mortally so, and the one-armed master made him acknowledge his mistake with a sharp uppercut to the midriff.

Despite being made with his one hand which had just parried the scimitar, Zumud's attack was so swift that Amalagh was not able to register it and try to defend. The blow winded the muscular elf but did little in the way of damage. Even so, he was forced to stumble backwards to recover his breath.

"You are improving," Zumud admitted. It was quite true; Amalagh had progressed greatly as a swordsman in the few months that they had been training together, so much so that he was able to put the older warrior into a corner several times during each fight. "But you will need more if you are to beat the masters here. They are not as skilled as I, but they will pose a formidable challenge to you as you are."

Amalagh nodded in acquiescence. There was no gloating in Zumud's voice. His words were merely a statement of fact.

"I see, master," he said obediently, inclining his head in a slight bow. As a lowly _Sargtlin_ it was his duty to respect his superiors without question or retort and even in the presence of the usually relaxed Zumud he dared not disobey.

"One more time for now?" Zumud casually inquired, raising his bastard sword once again. Amalagh stood and their duel resumed.

The Lolth-touched attacked strongly, his scimitars working in tandem to create a storm of deadly metal. Zumud met it with his typical calmness, his bastard sword moving quickly to intercept one scimitar while the shield defended against the other. The one-armed weapons master had come to expect this offense from Amalagh, who was still relatively naïve in the way of swordsmanship. He thought of swordplay as fighting exclusively with the sword, when Zumud knew that it was much more than that. Swordplay was a fight to the death, and like any mortal conflict, the only real rule was that there was a winner and a loser, decided by who survived to the end.

If Amalagh fought in a real battle in this way of his, not utilizing every opportunity to take down an opponent, he would surely be slain.

Zumud came forward with the bastard sword and parried two sweeps from the scimitars. While skillful, Amalagh's strikes always seemed strangely uncoordinated, as if he had trouble keeping his balance with the blades. For this reason, the Lolth-touched was not reaching his full potential, and Zumud always ultimately prevailed. The master had to find the secret to helping Amalagh discover his true potential, or all of his work would be wasted when the apprentice found himself impaled on another's blade. Zumud had never and would never tolerate weakness.

Amalagh increased the speed of his attacks in typical fashion, keeping his strikes fast and unpredictable so as to keep Zumud on his toes. The master was pleased with how the young warrior could vary his attack angles; few drow would be able to defend against it.

But the best of them would.

The Lolth-touched hammered Zumud's bastard sword with both scimitars, driving it upwards and sending a numbing sensation down the master's arm. Knocking the shield out wide for a fraction of a second, Amalagh saw his opening and thrust in for his final strike. He knew how the glamer effect worked; Zumud's body was always three inches to the right of where it appeared.

He grinned in anticipation of his victory as he felt the tips of his scimitars come into contact with something solid, but it quickly vanished as he realized that they had not actually struck home.

Zumud's shield, having recovered, smashed into the apprentice's outstretched forearms and pinned his swords to the wall. The one-armed master stabbed his bastard sword through the shield's surface and into the calcite barrier, preventing his opponent's weapons from being moved. He then adjusted the grip on his sword, collapsing the hilt to reveal a minuscule dagger with a blade not as long or wide as a drow child's finger. Putting the knife to Amalagh's throat, Zumud made a gesture with his wrist as if to cut the jugular vein before reinserting it back into the hilt of the bastard sword.

"I win again," he said as he reset his shield on his back and sheathed the bastard sword. Amalagh examined his blades carefully, his eyes roaming up and down the steel edges, before throwing them to the floor in frustration with a resounding clatter that echoed throughout the large sparring chamber.

"What is wrong with me?" Amalagh muttered angrily, pacing the room and restlessly clenching and unclenching his fists, staring at them the whole time. "I'm not strong enough to beat you, but I had you at my mercy. I felt the blades connect."

"I felt them as well," Zumud said, speaking slowly and reassuringly to calm his hotheaded apprentice. "The problem is not you, Amalagh. Your strength is unparalleled in the school, as is your potential. But your equipment—"

The weapons master broke off, casting a somber look at the young elf's scimitars, which still lay abandoned on the floor.

"They are sub-par, unacceptably poor for one such as you."

"But a strong warrior should be able to win with any weapon. Or none at all."

"Ah. But sometimes a powerful warrior deserves a great weapon. Do you not agree?"

Sensing the rhetorical tone of the question, Amalagh decided not to answer. Zumud observed his pupil's reaction to this with one raised eyebrow. His face was a jumble of conflicting emotions: anger at his seemingly lackluster performances, hatred towards some other or others who had wronged him, and a hint of pride that his skills had been acknowledged. The one-armed master resisted the urge to smile and chide Amalagh on his lack of composure; the Lolth-touched still had a great deal to learn about subtlety.

"Come with me."

Zumud turned and strode out of the sparring arena. Amalagh hesitated for just a moment before following. The dark elves moved through numerous rooms similar to the one they had just left before reaching a large, solid iron doorway with a complex series of different locks. Zumud uttered words Amalagh could not understand, but the Lolth-touched had been around enough mages to understand when sorcery was being used. The locks on the door undid themselves, and the door swung open to reveal the armory Melee-Magthere.

In no way a grand room like the halls of the nearby Arach-Tinilith, the armory had been made to serve its purpose. A long and narrow room with a high ceiling, the armory was dominated by three long racks of weapons and armor. Swords, bows, axes and polearms, all expertly forged by meticulous duergar craftsmen and enchanted by drow wizards. Amalagh was too awestruck by the sight to notice as Zumud thrust the hilt of a sword into his palm.

Once he had recovered himself enough to be once again aware of his surroundings, the young warrior looked at the blade in his hand. A longer and straighter blade than his iron scimitars, he felt its heavy grip, unbalanced towards the tip. Strangely, this uneven sword felt right in his hand, like it was made for someone with great strength.

"This is the blade for you," Zumud said, his voice now deadly serious. "Use it and make me proud." The master took another such blade from the wall and held it out along with two scabbards. Amalagh sheathed them and pulled the belt around his waist, latching it into place with a soft click.

"I will, master."


	9. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8: Grand Melee_

Amalagh shifted his muscular body uneasily as he waited in line with the other students. The masters would take their time coming here, just to make the pupils uncomfortable so as to catch them off guard. A _Sargtlin_ with no sense of personal discipline was useless to his superiors and would be quickly and severely punished for his incompetence if he were ever caught unawares.

Anglin appeared first, his weapons still resting as casually as they always did on his lithe form. Amalagh wondered fleetingly if the master had ever used the weapons, or if they were merely for show. He had never fought in training; even Randiir or Zumud rarely handled the manual sparring with students, saving such work for the lower-ranked lieutenants under their command.

Anglin seemed to be the lore master of Melee-Magthere; for four hours a day every day since their entrance to the Fighter's Academy he had harangued to the initiates the sins of their hated and reviled cousins, the surface elves. He preached the evil of the surface _rivvil_ and the righteousness of the dark elves, never ceasing his tirade and exhorting his audience with practiced ease. Most of the cadets listened eagerly, always looking for someone to blame for the hardships in their lives, however trivial.

Amalagh reflected on the lecture from earlier that day, the latest of many speeches unsubtly laced with hatred and prejudice.

"It was the foul surfacers who cast us down into the dark caves that we now call home!" Anglin had shouted. He was greeted with shouts of rage and bloodlust as the students fell into his deceit.

"Threatened us with death, they did!" the master continued, his voice rising in a magically amplified crescendo. "They said they would cast us into Hell. They, who know nothing of Hell!"

Another chorus of jeers and angry roars rumbled up from the crowd. "Suffered, I have!" shouted one drow in the front row of the huge hall. Amalagh had scoffed at their ignorance; the war between the drow and their surface cousins had taken place thousands of years ago, but they spoke of it as if it had happened yesterday, as if they themselves had been witnesses to their expulsion from the light.

"But we are better for it, my brothers," Anglin had said, and Amalagh cocked an eyebrow at the use of such a personal term as 'brother'. It was inconceivable to the Lolth-touched that Anglin was capable of such a bond as brotherhood, for his relationship with the cadets was more like that of a _sava_ player and his pawns. "We have persevered in the foulest depths or the darkness and we have grown stronger! Better than our kin, who so foolishly sent us here to die in the first place. We fought for what is now ours; whose blood has been so willingly given for the Spider Queen?"

"OURS!" was the deafening reply as nearly every one of the drow in the room yelled in unison.

"And whose blood must yet be paid?"

"THEIRS!" said the voices of a thousand dark elves, their aching throats salivating for the blood of their surface kin.

Anglin had then smiled wickedly; he was not even a priestess of Lolth, and he had these cadets eating out of the palm of his Queen's hand. He began the chant of praise to the Mother of Lust, and the males joined him enthusiastically: "Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"

Amalagh looked to his left and examined Zumud, who had stood next to him in a corner during every one of Anglin's speeches since their first sparring match. The weapons master's face was always cold and blank, deadly serious and firmly set. His red eyes stared straight ahead, as if fixed on something only he could see, some unseen harbinger of doom.

"They are fools," the Lolth-touched had said, speaking in an attempt to break the uncomfortable moment between him and his master. Zumud was very introspective in public, keeping things close to the vest and never revealing any sign of weakness. Amalagh knew that kind of behavior well. Those who had once trusted and then felt the cold, empty feeling of betrayal were usually exceedingly paranoid afterwards. In his brief life, Amalagh had seen many get stabbed in the back, more often literally than metaphorically, and he had developed very similar defenses.

"They are so willing to prostrate themselves before the Spider Queen, who grants them nothing beyond a lifetime of servitude and, if they are lucky, a quick death in battle rather than sacrifice on her altar."

"They want a scapegoat," Zumud replied, not looking at his apprentice. Even though he addressed Amalagh, his voice was still distant. "The gullible want something to blame for their own grievances, and a savior from said problems. The Spider Queen gives them that, in a way."

"They are still fools."

"Do you doubt the Queen's power?" Zumud had inquired, finally turning towards his pupil after his long staring contest with empty space. "You have seen the powers of the priestesses, even if they are minor in rank. You know how dangerous they are, and you are also aware of the consequences of blasphemy."

Despite his previous words, Amalagh had blanched under his mentor's withering gaze. "Yes, master," was all he could say in reply.

He now stood at attention as Anglin entered the room, followed by Randiir. It struck Amalagh as odd that he had never seen the berserker fight either, but with Randiir's imposing physique it was understandable why no one dared to challenge him. He was almost two inches shorter than Amalagh, but his shoulders were several inches broader and bound with sinew. The vest he wore could barely contain his brawny torso, and his huge, tattooed arms bulged with muscle. Despite his stature, something about him struck the Lolth-touched as unnatural, as if the muscles on his form were not real. But the serrated axe at his hip seemed real enough, so Amalagh decided to reserve judgment until a battle between them came.

Zumud came last, and the one-armed master didn't so much as glance Amalagh's way. This was their public face; to others, there was no connection between them. No one knew of the lessons Zumud had given the young Shaiith warrior.

Anglin stepped forward to speak just as the other two masters fell in step behind him. "This will be the first real test of your combat abilities. We have taught you the basic techniques and more, but now it is your time to put your skills to the test against your peers. Welcome," he said, pausing for dramatic effect," to the Grand Melee!"

With a dramatic flourish of his hands, Anglin summoned racks of weapons to the room in front of the students, but an inspection revealed that these were not ordinary weapons. Anything with an edge had been rounded and dulled to non-lethal capabilities; they would not kill, but still hurt tremendously when struck against flesh. Amalagh selected two of similar craft and weight to his two longswords and thrust them into his empty scabbards.

"There is only one rule to this Melee: once you are pointed out by a master, who will indicate so with a red light, you are required to cease fighting. Consequences for failure to comply with this rule will be extreme. Other than that, there are no restrictions on tactics or weapons, except that you must use the weapons provided." Anglin's grin now went from ear to ear, and with one more sweep of his arms he said, "Have fun."

Amalagh suddenly felt weightless as he transcended the Material Plane for just a moment before reappearing in a corridor he did not recognize. Scrambling quickly up a ledge to his left, he emerged upon a squat square structure. Pivoting, he saw more of the same formations arranged all around him as far as the eye could see.

_Welcome_, Anglin's voice boomed in his head, _to the Dragon's Teeth_.

The Lolth-touched fell as the telepathic message overwhelmed his senses, and only barely felt the thud of his body striking the stone floor. An aching pain clawed its way into his brain as the master's voice continued to echo.

Eventually the mental cacophony subsided, and Amalagh pushed himself up. Still reeling from the pain that split his forehead, he stumbled forward to the closest intersection where four paths converged into one small square.

Another scream pierced his head, but this one was coming from his ears, not his brain. Another drow, eyes shining and mouth wide in anticipation of victory, swooped in from Amalagh's right with a long blunt sword, trying to take advantage of the larger elf's dazed and unarmed state. The young warrior's blades appeared in his hand and, no longer unarmed, he met his smaller counterpart head-on. As the other drow tried to press with an attack routine, Amalagh felt as though time slowed to a crawl. Compared to Zumud, this student was slow, too slow. Or was it just that he was faster?

Moving with speed he did not know he had, the Lolth-touched slapped his left-hand blade against his opponent's second weapon – a short blade about the size of a standard drow main-gauche – and parried the longsword with his own. The warrior's defenses were quickly laid bare as his blades were outside of Amalagh's, and the massive fighter hammered both swords viciously into his opponent's temples. A red dot of defeat appeared on the student's forehead as he collapsed, unconscious from the double blow that had struck him.

Amalagh moved on, slipping between the Dragon's Teeth and swiftly defeating any student who he came across. After a half hour, he had dispatched at least ten of his fellows, who could not hope to equal his speed and strength.

But open combat was not his only option. Three more unsuspecting students were easily eliminated with swift chops to the back of the neck or a swift draw across the throat which was quickly caught by the observing masters, who floated in the gloom above like specters from the realm of death and responded with a prompt red beam of disqualification. After a while, the massive drow began to enjoy the fighting. This was what he was born to do, he realized, as he felt the rush of adrenaline in his bloodstream as he prepared to engage yet another student in combat.

Readying his twin swords, Amalagh advanced into a large clearing, a sudden change from the uniform intersections of the Dragon's Teeth. The space, however, was surrounded by high walls on either side and pockmarked with towering pillars of stone about a foot in diameter. The drow charged into the space and attacked with a quick double thrust to his opponent's gut, taking him down easily.

But it then dawned on him that he had been set up when four more warriors – all with brooches displaying the symbols of high noble Houses – leaped down from the walls. One bearing the insignia and brandishing a blunted polearm similar to a halberd lowered his weapon and charged, ready to impale Amalagh. The young warrior was ready, though, as he dove to the side at the last possible moment and let the spearhead enter the stone, which softened and then instantly hardened again around the weapon. The warrior who had been welding the halberd cursed loudly and tried to tug it from the pillar, but to no avail as the Lolth-touched jabbed him in the ribs in a formal declaration of victory. A red dot appeared on the pupil's forehead, and he sat down in a huff with his arms crossed.

Amalagh turned to the next opponent in a flash—a small and wiry elf that looked as though he barely possessed the strength to lift the two blunted swords at his side—and attacked with an overly grandiose sweep of his right hand. The longsword occupied both of his opponent's weapons, allowing the strong warrior to bring the next blade across and knock him out.

The two remaining fighters—both wielding pairs of longswords—closed together, but Amalagh continued to used the pillars to his advantage, continually weaving in between them for cover and parrying the more accurate strikes with his own weapons. One of his foes sliced high with both swords, and Amalagh performed a low sweep kick to take the drow's feet out from under him. The other student hit the ground hard and air escaped from his lungs in a low wheeze, which quickly became a grunt of pain as the Lolth-touched finished him with a powerful slap of his rounded blade.

The last dark elf—the most opportunistic of them, as it were—took advantage of Amalagh's momentary concentration on his coup de grace and attacked, smashing away the large drow's sword that was still raised and breaking a finger in the process.

Amalagh felt a surge of anger rise within him from the depths of his heart, a destructive and malicious fury that threatened to consume him, much as it had on the night he had sent the leper Zabal to his fiery demise. All he could think about was the need he suddenly felt to attack.

Turning towards his assailant with a burst of speed, Amalagh thrust his sword as hard as he could and heard the crack of snapping bones. A spray of warm liquid sprayed over his face, and he quickly recognized it as blood by its peculiar tang. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up at the other warrior from his kneeling position.

The young elf returned Amalagh's gaze, his lip quivering and his eyes fearful. The massive fighter's weapon had stuck upwards just below the lowest rib, perforating the supple leather armor and the vulnerable flesh. The other end of the blunted sword emerged from the drow's backside, having pierced the lung and shattered the ribcage with horrific ease. The force of the blow had also splintered the sword, leaving Amalagh with only a broken hilt in his hand.

The feeling of anger had subsided as quickly as it had appeared, and Amalagh could do nothing but stare into the eyes of the drow who he had mortally wounded. The eyes sickened him with their frailty and pleading look.

No, he realized, it was himself with whom he was disgusted. Not for the kill itself; killing was not new to him, for even before Zabal there had been others who he had slain.

It was manner in which he had committed the deed that infuriated Amalagh. He had allowed his anger to control him, force him into doing something so irrational as to use unnecessary lethal force.

Still on his knees and clutching the hilt of his weapon with a cold, clammy hand, Amalagh felt strange and unpleasant warmth encompass his cranium. He shifted his gaze and craned his neck to see the spectral form of Ralak-Nûl Zumud, whose wand shone with the red light of expulsion on Amalagh's forehead.


End file.
